It Happened
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Last story to the "Never Happened" series. This is blatant joanlock fluff bordering on torrid- granted my idea of torrid is much, much tamer than most. I tried. Knowledge of a Bruce Springsteen song or two would help to enjoy this a bit more, as would reading the other stories in the series, but it isn't absolutely necessary.


This New York City summer was brutal. The humidity and heat woke up with the sun and stayed long after the sun had retired for the evening. Like the last guest to leave a party, the heat lingered, unwanted, not knowing how to leave.

The brownstone never cooled sufficiently enough to please either of them. The roof became their haven, the place to wait and hope to catch that first breeze, the one that shooed the day's sticky heat towards the horizon. The work that needed to take place indoors was done quickly, most often in tank tops and shorts for Joan and bare chested and trousered for Sherlock. According to him, shorts were for young lads and only appropriate for a grown man in athletic competition.

Joan made her way up to the roof with a pint of ice cream in each hand to find Sherlock gazing out across the river towards the lights of Manhattan. The air lay thick and humid. The clouds, lit a dusky pink and orange by the urban lights, kept the heat firmly pressed against the concrete and asphalt of the city. There was no relief in sight.

He acknowledged her arrival. "Good job, this afternoon,Watson."

"Thanks. You, too." She nudged his bare arm with the cold container. He took it, scarcely looking at her.

He said nothing else. She stood next to him, equally silent for the moment. Staring across the river to the city lights, they waited side by side for that first wisp of a breeze to arrive but instead had another wave of heat drape itself heavily over them.

Joan sighed, "Eat your ice cream before it melts." Following her own advice, she took a spoonful of the salted caramel swirl and let it melt in her mouth. Joan strolled over to one of the lounge chairs, sank into the soft cushions she had purchased for them and let her body relax. She put in her ear buds, pumped up the Springsteen and ate her ice cream with her eyes closed.

The kah-thunk and clank of his body dropping onto the chair next to her startled her. Joan opened her eyes and shot him a quick glance.

Sherlock sat slouched in his chair, carton of ice cream in one hand, spoon in the other, legs extended in front of him. Joan closed her eyes once more, took in another spoonful of the creamy swirl and as she vicariously wrapped her arms around the rough edged singer, the motorcycle roared, and she let him convince her that they were born to run.

Sherlock studied her face, the relaxed manner of her body, the way her lips were almost mouthing lyrics. He found himself fascinated once again by this woman who had shared his life for almost three years now. Without opening her eyes, Joan, took another spoonful. Sherlock sat transfixed watching her lips encase the laden spoon, and then slowly part as she pulled it out, silvery and bare of its contents; her tongue licked the last remnants of the caramel off the implement.

With a rising awareness that she was being watched, Joan slowly opened her eyes and moved them towards his. In the semi-darkness of the hazy air, their eyes connected and held on. His thoughts and feelings were impenetrable to her but she felt his pull. The memories of those moments that had "never happened" between them were unexpectedly rising within her.

Sherlock too felt the pull. His eyes dove into hers, seeking some sense of understanding; was she feeling as he was at this moment. Ultimately, his uncertainty overwhelmed him. He felt an urgent need to end the moment, lest he make the wrong decision. He broke eye contact and made an effort to sit up, plunging his spoon into his own pint of ice cream. "What are you listening to?"

Joan looked down quickly, embarrassed that she had let her guard down. She removed one of earbuds and answered lightly, "Bruce Springsteen, are you familiar with his ..."

"Ah! The Boss ..." Sherlock nodding, cut her off. "Of course, I do have a passing knowledge of popular culture, Watson." He took a huge spoonful of his ice cream into his mouth and savored the cool mint and chocolate.

With the music still pounding in one ear, Joan found herself watching him, taking in the details of his gliding jaws, the movement of his tongue behind closed lips, the small drop of condensation that fell from the container onto his chest. She sucked in a big gulp of hot air and sat up in her chair, "You want to listen?" Joan pulled out the headphones and let the music blare out of the iPhone's speakers.

_You can't start a fire without a spark,  
>This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark ...<em>

The strong beat of the music oscillated between them as they once more stared at each other. Sherlock suddenly took action. Setting aside his ice cream, he decisively stood up, stepped towards her and extended his hand with an almost condescending hint of a smile on his face, as if he were challenging her to accept.

Joan's face showed her amusement. "You can't be serious? It's too hot..." He didn't back down. He once again offered her his hand in the same challenging manner. Joan noticed his eyes - they betrayed the same feelings of vulnerability she felt. While her mind vacillated, her body made the decision for her. She took his hand and stood up, close in front of him.

_This gun's for hire  
>Even if we're just dancing in the dark<em>

He placed one hand genteelly on her upper hip and with the other, took her hand as if to waltz. They started moving together hesitantly at first ...

_You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart  
>This gun's for hire<em>

The lively percussive beat was infectious and soon they were moving without self consciousness, enjoying synchronization without thought.

_Even if we're just dancing in the dark  
>Even if we're just dancing in the dark<em>

She twirled and laughed as the music ended, "You're not a bad dancer."

"If something is to be done it should be done well," he said rather immodestly. Beads of perspiration glistened on his shoulders. Her face glowed with the sheen of her exertions. The playlist moved and the sinuous strands of the next Springsteen song entwined around them.

_Hey little girl is your daddy home  
>Did he go and leave you all alone<br>I got a bad desire  
>I'm on fire<em>

Sherlock stepped closer, keeping his eyes locked on hers, his hands carefully came to rest on her hips as they began to sway to the music. Joan's hands reached up and found their place about his neck. The music continued its slow percussive rhythm, the words languorously weaving around them. Her hips moved in small circles under his hands and his body followed suit. The suffocating heat was forgotten, subjugated by feelings of want and need. Faces almost touching, there was now no doubt in either of their minds about how the other felt.

_I can take you higher. I'm on fire_

The intensity of his gaze was returned with a smoldering, half-lidded response that caused his hands to tighten on her hips and pull her hard onto him. She moved her arms, grasping at his back and bringing his torso flush up to her. Her face found his chest and nestled, her warm breath caressed his skin. The slow grind of their bodies in rhythm to the music continued.

_Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby  
>Edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley<br>Through the middle of my soul_

His lips were at her bare shoulder, dragging across to her neck. Joan tilted her head back at the sheer pleasure of the sensation, as Sherlock trailed his open mouth down her neck. Fingers found the bottom edge of her tank top and pulled up at the material, exposing her midriff. He worshipfully went down on his knees before her, burrowed his face and rapturously kissed her soft abdomen. The sensation caused her to collapse in, wrap her arms and body around and cradle him close to her. She cupped his face and lifted it upwards towards her. His eyes shone with desire as she bent down and found his waiting mouth. The kiss was long and deep, only stopped by the need for air.

_At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet  
>And a freight train running through the<br>Middle of my head  
>Only you can cool my desire<br>I'm on fire._

Sherlock tore himself away from her and walked towards the lounge chairs. He pulled off the cushions and set them down on the floor at her feet. Sitting himself down on the edge, he looked up to her and once again extended her his hand. Joan brought herself down beside him.

He took her face in his hand and opened his mouth as if to speak but stopped himself and looked down.

Joan took his hand, fearful of what he was about to say but still needing to hear it, "Tell me."

Finding courage in a deep breath, he spoke at first without looking at her. "I no longer wish to take part in this game we have been playing."

Joan's heart began to race. "I ... I understand ... We don't have to do this ..." She stammered and made a movement away from him. He grabbed her arm.

"No!" The strength of the one word stopped her. "You don't understand. For a long time now, we have occasionally enjoyed moments such as these and then pretended they never happened." He looked deep into her eyes whispering, "I no longer wish to pretend ..." A smile crept across her face as he continued, "I would very much like us to acknowledge this facet of our relationship, the depth of our feelings for ..." Joan stopped him from saying anything else by covering his mouth with hers with an intensity that forced him backwards onto the cushions. Words were no longer necessary. Thought was no longer necessary. Physical need and emotional desire took over. Her hand breached the boundary of his waistband as his finished the task it had earlier started at the hemline of her top and at the touch of skin to skin, they were lost to the outside world.

The phone continued cycling through the playlist. The strands of instrumental jazz replaced Bruce, but Joan and Sherlock were no longer listening. Their own innately personal rhythms drove them steadily forward towards culmination.

The first cool breeze of the evening swept over the edge of the brownstone roof, rolled across to them and caressed their spent forms as they lay content in each other's arms.


End file.
